Draft archive #3 | "That way is better."

See Draft archive #1 here

In searching for a completely unrelated item on our computer just now, I ran across a reflection I had written May 27, 2015. Reading it over a year [now two] removed from the original writing, I was most impressed by the wisdom and counsel I was giving to my future (current) self -- and the extent to which it challenges me today. Perhaps you need to read this, as well?

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Yesterday was a first for both of us here in the Dominican Republic: we attended the funeral of a friend’s father. How do we dress? What do we do? What’s appropriate? These were a few of the questions we asked after receiving the call from a mutual friend. Several of the customs were briefly shared with us: it is customary to sit in relative silence with the family during this time, also, dress in dark or muted colors—no bright clothing. And with that, we were off.

We arrived to a large crowd already gathered at the house and quietly took a couple seats in the carport area where we sat silently, with the occasional nod of condolence or quick smile to a toddler. Relatives and friends of the family trickled in as we sat there, observing. There was preaching and music inside the house – both, speaking of heaven and Jesus and eternal hope. We sat silently with the occasional rustling of a chair, as a mother would get up to wrangle her little one. A soft sob would break out from one of the adult sons in attendance—he seemed to be taking it the hardest. The ending of the music and preaching indicated the end of the service, and family filed out of the house; we exchanged hugs and sympathetic looks. We went inside to give our condolences to those remaining in the living room, where the body was on display in a white casket.

As I looked at the lifeless body, I was struck by something: his mouth. In the States, and here, apparently, one of the mortuary practices is to sew the lips together. This creates that pursed look so many corpses have shown me over the years. This might be more common throughout the world, but I have little experience on the matter, and simply don't know.

There I stood, looking at this man’s body, and I was reminded of my family members over the years. Uncles, cousins, friends, grandparents… Perhaps, because the deceased was a man, in that moment I remembered my Papaw Rasnic at his funeral. Slowly and quietly, I began to feel I was at a family member's funeral. I was sad more from remembering my own grandfather than I was for the family’s immediate loss.

My pain was real.

By this time, the crowd was beginning to grow under the covering, which extended from the front porch of the house, made of rope and a giant tarp. This provided covering from the sun and weather and was also a very distinct marker to all passing by that something was going on at this location. As with many customs I grew up with in the States, this all felt too familiar. At home, the local funeral homes (there were a few) would perform all the services for the family—providing a centralized place for the community to gather, setting up tent coverings in the front yard of the deceased (or a family member’s) to accommodate the extra traffic, etc.

I was reminded of our practice of sending flowers to the funeral home (where the service was often held). I remember seeing the flowers at the gravesite afterwards and a few of the arrangements would often make their ways back to the home of the deceased – or whichever house where the family gathered afterward – surrounded by a couple photos or other memorabilia.

Surely enough, after having been at the house for a short period of time, one of the local taxi services showed up with an enormous bouquet of flowers announcing their solidarity with the family and it’s pain.

Dolor (the Spanish word for pain) is a word I heard several times yesterday; I was struck by the phrasing surrounding that word. We are united with the family in it’s pain, announced the banner on the bouquet. It’s customary to sit with the family in it’s pain, we were told.

It's culturally expected that during these times the family of the deceased is to serve those who come to visit. If I show up at your house, you should offer me something to drink: juice, milk, or coffee (coffee here seems to be the equivalent of sweet tea where I’m from. You show up, sit on the porch and drink a glass of sweet tea.) Here, in the afternoons after siesta or in the evening while visiting, it is customary to make and drink coffee with those gathered round – at least that’s what I’ve experienced so far. And here, it seems, the same thought process takes place at funerals. The family of the deceased is expected to provide coffee and serve those in attendance.

Later that night, a local man, when he was recounting his youngest sibling’s death six years earlier, made this comment about our customs at funerals back home: “I like that you guys do this [bringing food to the family of the deceased] in the States because here it’s difficult to serve everyone when you’re in so much pain. That way is better.”

There it was again. That word: dolor.

I appreciate the word and all it brings to mind for me. As a Christian, a missionary, even, I sit here typing and think about how similar our two customs are, and yet how different.

I tend to think in generalities when processing personal things. Somehow it works for me.

Pain is something we avoid in the States.

When there’s a death, we gather at funeral homes – or maybe we bring the urn home after cremation – and we share stories of that person and their impact on our lives. We recall funny moments, awkward moments. That time when… We maneuver through the pain by skipping over it—by talking around it, laughing about some other point in time. Without fail, someone will be present crying for indeterminate amounts of time, making us all feel uncomfortable. Subconsciously (sometimes consciously) wishing we were able to enter in with them – or that they would just stop – we inevitably return to our plate of food, our glass of tea, our humorous story, and proceed to avoid the pain.

When we are faced with emotional or mental pain in the States – from loss of almost any kind – we want to save it for later. We mask our pain with food, alcohol, drugs (prescription and non-prescription), illicit affairs, humor, pornography, work… We save our pain for later, and later never comes. Depression sets in, families dissolve, our bodies disintegrate. We don’t do pain well. Mental health care has become a billion-dollar industry, as a result.

As a nation, we don’t like to suffer, and for those of us who are Christians in the United States, this presents a major problem. We have belief systems that tell us God doesn’t want us to suffer. We have belief systems that provide us with clichés to dismiss our pain (God is in control! … God knows) because suffering isn’t acceptable and must be explained away...

There is something strange, awkward even, about sitting with a family in their pain. This practice is common in many cultures throughout the world. In the States, strands of this practice still exist, but it’s waning.

I think of Job, how his friends came to sit with him in his grief. I think of other instances in the Old Testament when people would tear their clothes and dump ashes on themselves and sit for periods of time. I think of some cultures where, for days on end, mourning is a public, honored practice. People wail and weep for the deceased, for the pain that remains in their stead. In the States, we try to coordinate funerals and services around the weekends because it’s easier for travel, we don’t have to miss as much work, and we’re simply already busy throughout the week. It’s inconvenient, pain.

But it’s necessary.

I think of the years of alcohol abuse, unhealthy relationships, extended adolescence, and the running away from home that I put myself through, trying to avoid pain. I poured myself into playing basketball, partying from Thursday to Sunday (sometimes Monday or Tuesday) nights, perennially working part-time (or near part-time) jobs to avoid any real responsibility, causing me to sit still for any length of time. I think of the years of taking anti-depressants or anti-anxiety pills to bring me out of the gloomy sadness that had become my life – all of this was to try and avoid the pain. It went on so long, in fact, I had forgotten what the original pain was, although it was still there, gnawing at me. There’s a poignant moment (for me, at least) in the movie Open Range where the protagonists of the story are faced with major conflict that could result in the death of some. 

When asked why the local town-folk hadn’t done something earlier about the corrupt sheriff and the lawless oppression infiltrating the town, one of those near the conversation spoke up, “I didn’t raise my boys just to watch ‘em die.” To which, the character asking the question responded, “You might not know this, but there’s things that gnaw at a man a lot worse than dying.” After living a short 44 years on this planet, I have to agree. Unresolved pain, unresolved conflict, gnaw at a person and take away valuable life...

Sitting quietly with a family in their pain, even briefly, yesterday, reminded me of something wonderful about this life: pain is something to be shared. It is something to be treasured when it’s yours—not placed in a container on some shelf, never to be touched again. For pain cannot be avoided, it can only be dealt with. Pain is real and will be part of this life, until this life is no more. Only then will we forget about pain, never to be affected by it again—if we know Christ, that is.

‘What to do’ has been resolved. Allow people to enter into my pain, while I serve them. By embracing the pain and serving others, I can identify with Christ, who did the same for me 2000 years ago.

I think the lesson for me, at this point, is simple. Pain is to be treated like love. It is to be shared. It serves as a reminder that love exists, that love continues. And if I avoid the pain, by default, I lose the love that could have been.

Choose love.

From the Draft archives... Ramblings from December 2014

See Draft archive #1 here

Life is Life

It’s 5:30 in the morning here; 4:30 for those of you on the East Coast of the U.S.

Roosters are crowing, crickets and other bugs are still chirping—the occasional high-pitched cry of that proverbial early bird pierces the night. The hand on our clock gently counts out the seconds as I’m sitting here in our living room with my thoughts and my God.

The gentle roar of our refrigerator’s compressor reminds me that, despite some minor inconveniences (like somewhat dirty water, the occasional power outage, and bachata music being shared by our neighbor from time-to-time), we basically live a comfortable, American life--in a different country. 

We’re not really being challenged to live under difficult circumstances. Even in a developing nation, where people are going hungry on a daily basis, where basic medical care isn’t even available, much less denied, to many--where the human spirit is both alive-and-well and crushed simultaneously. We have more material things than most of the people we encounter every day--and many people back home.

They're so poor but so happy

There seems to be a carefree spirit here. It’s the same carefree spirit I remember from my childhood when each day was new - was an adventure - and wasn’t filled with the stress so many of us in the U.S. know today. My hometown was poor, but wasn’t the poorest by any stretch of the imagination.

We were a typical community in the U.S. holding our PTO (parent-teacher organization, pre-Harper Valley PTA) meetings and our county-wide sports tournaments. Our summers were spent at the pools & rivers, in the gardens, tobacco patches, and hay fields. The obligatory week of Vacation Bible School, the obligatory church revivals held semi-annually (if not quarterly), and the weekly grazing (which we called fellowship) after church on Sunday marked the region and religion I grew up knowing.

We also idolized professional athletes and rock musicians, with their images plastered on our bedroom walls, and their maneuvers running through our minds as we made every effort to imitate them. Aside from the obvious cultural differences, this town and its people are not so different from where I grew up.

Are the children here happier than I was growing up? Children are creative by nature and will find things to occupy their minds and time. Children will find sticks to play with, bicycles to ride, rocks to throw, papers to color and draw on. Imaginary friends, animals, or other children offer chances to have conversation and develop personalities. It’s only after children begin to grow up that creativity gives way to necessity. 

The pang of hunger that could be temporarily ignored as a child becomes compounded by the weight of providing for a family. Suddenly, the “live for today” mentality no longer works because tomorrow is coming and there’s no food to eat and no job by which to earn money to buy food. The failure to plan for tomorrow has many adults hamstrung with no education, no job, and no hope both here and in the States. "Where there is no vision..."

When does helping hurt?

As I drive, look, and walk around Jarabacoa and the surrounding communities, I see an inundation of organizations bringing aid to a country, a city, a people hurting and in need. Some organizations are Christian, others are not. This has caused me to pause and reflect on more than one occasion. What differentiates us, one from another? A further, and more important question I've come to ask is, "Why should the focus be on the differences?"

As a believer in Christ, I struggle with many questions from time to time: What are we doing here? What am I doing here? Is any real difference being made? Are we like most of the mission teams that came to my hometown when I was growing up—a couple weeks of fun water balloon fights and some bible lessons, with emotional goodbyes at the end? Or are we making real, tangible differences here? Are we being changed, or further engrained in our beliefs and doctrines?

Am I becoming part of the culture where I’m living, or am I remaining an American living abroad amongst “these people”? Have I truly left my culture in order to identify with another? That isn’t really the American way. They are supposed to assimilate into my culture. After all (as the Puritans thought), it's their manifest destiny to obtain God's good fortunes, too. (The Call, Os Guinness, p. 115)

Contradiction in Lives

I grew up having slight disdain for those rich people living in our neighborhoods who didn’t quite understand what ‘real life’ was like. They never invited us over for dinner (and we never invited them over, either). They always did some grand thing at a local hospital or school to show their benevolence—but I never knew them on a personal level. Looking back, I don’t think I ever cared to know them. I simply was too young to care, or later on, was too caught up in my personal injury--or that of my family--to reach out for relationship. Living in another country now, watching the occasional news events about my home country, I see that America and her church, have become those rich people to the world.

We bicker and gripe over this political issue or that humanitarian cause as we all sit on our money, while the world watches in famished disgust. We indulge our self-promoting causes, we protest when we should be reaching out. We debate when we should be listening; we impose when we should be taking the posture of servants. We deny when we should be welcoming. Although there are exceptions to every rule, bread is bread, whether it's whole-grain, pita, or pumpernickel, and the United States is one giant bread store.

What to do?

I’m one of the billions of people who ascribe to one of the major religions of the world. I’m one of the millions upon millions that worship only one god in my religion. I’m one of the millions who claim that this same god is the only real god. I’m also one of the millions who claim this one true god interacts with us on both corporate and personal levels in daily life--who claim this same god had a son that came to live on this planet where I live in such a way that he guaranteed the way for me to live eternally in the presence of that same god. I’m one of the milliions upon millions who was born in the United States and has had the privilege of never actually having to put my life at risk for the religion or god I hold so dearly. The greatest threat to my life has been, essentially, someone shaking their finger at me, saying, “You can’t do that (pray in school, say 'under God', etc.) anymore” – with absolutely no consequence; this potential public shaming has come to be called persecution. 

When I see what's taking place in the Middle East, China, and other non-Christian-friendly areas of the world, I have to believe that we North Americans don't actually know what persecution is. We seem to think that because gay marriage has been deemed lawful that the end times are near. Much of the Christian world has been suffering prison, beatings, beheadings, crucifixions, or mustard gas--just to name a few things--for centuries and now that we have to let Syrians into our country, that the Great Tribulation is now ready to begin. Since when did the U.S. become the linch-pin of God's plan for mankind?

As the roosters continue to crow, the birds continue to chirp, and the refrigerator continues to hum, I'm sitting here on our couch being reminded that I don't have to suffer--I "made it out". This reminder has been wonderful to me, because it causes me to remember one thing: we're all poor. Period. Without Jesus, this -- missions, para-church organizations, church -- is all worthless dung (as Paul puts it). I don't have to change a community. I don't have to solve the problem of hunger and poverty. I don't have to introduce a new, better way of living. I can love Jesus and tell others about Him whether I'm eating at Ruth's Chris or sitting on someone's front porch with nothing but day-old bread and a tiny cup of coffee.

He'll make the change. I simply need to be available for His use.

And so do you.

From the Draft archives...

I've been going back and reviewing some of the countless blog drafts just sitting in our account. I'm deciding to release some of them today.

Here's the first...

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Today is Saturday, July 18th. We had a rare Saturday morning with coffee, relative silence, and a bowl of cereal each. Later in the day, we took our dog, Jovie, for a walk to a nearby field; we played fetch with her and gave her full run of the field. She seemed to enjoy the freedom and is now sleeping soundly outside under our car. I would say she's content. 

I think the run was more exciting than it probably should have been, but we keep her in our yard all the time. Yards in the DR vary greatly in size, but almost all are enclosed by fences of some type to discourage prowlers, robbers, and the occasional cow from entering uninvited. Being from the country, or el campo, these fences and cast-iron gates can seem like prisons to me, at times. I'm sure the dog (she's a terrier of sorts) identifies on some level -- she was made to run, hunt. 

In the mornings, when it's time for us to leave the house for work, or whatever else the day has, the routine is to catch the dog, place her in her 3'x3' cage (long enough to open the main gate and get the car out), then close it so that she can be released once more into her 30'x30' cage for the day. She does have full run of the place and a spectacular concrete roof on which to spend her leisure time when she's tired of the concrete patio/sidewalk down below. But a yard that a dog can span in less than 2 seconds feels confining, I'm sure. 

All summer I've been sharing cultural orientation with incoming groups here, and quite frankly, it's been slightly challenging. In all the ways you can imagine. 

First, there's growing up in a culture much like the one we're living in now. Describing this culture to Americans, as an American, has left me sometimes feeling ever-so-slightly on the raw side. I grew up in a region of the United States that sees it's fair share of missionaries, and I was never too pleased with the whole process. Imagine being something you used to resent. Now imagine yourself having to be bubbly/funny as you explain the concept of cultural sensitivity to a group of people just like the ones whose arrival you used to dread back home. 

Life during my childhood had its problems--I didn't know what they were at the time, because I was too busy enjoying life as a kid. Only later, when I "grew in knowledge" of my impoverished state of being, did I begin to feel shame. I was content in the six-mile circle, sandwiched between Powell Mountain and Wallens Ridge, known as Stickleyville. 

Missionaries were always a bit awesome to me: meaning I felt awe-struck (star-struck may be more accurate). They had great stories of life in other parts of the country, or the world. They had cool clothes and gadgets. 

Some of the people I grew up with would say things to me, like: "You have so much potential, please don't stay here. Go make something of yourself." These words mixed with foreign people from exotic places--like Minnesota or Illinois--telling us all about the God we each heard about every Sunday (while showing us what life was like in lands with no problems) made for a potent elixir to create a downward spiral. So, I eventually left because, hey, the world has so many cool things and people, and, apparently, there's nothing for me here. Somewhere the Gospel fits in there, I'm not totally sure where, though.

Along the way, contentment gave way to discontentment, which led to complacency, and then depression.

So today, as I was projecting my worldview onto my dog, my dog showed me what I used to know. She loved running free, chasing her little blue toy as far as my arm could throw it. She loved eating that cow-pie (she's a dog, OK?), and when play time was over, she came to us -- where we were squatting down to pet her -- and laid down, rolling to her back, exhausted, content and wanting to be petted. She knew where 'safe' was. She had no need of leaving the area to find her freedom; it was there with us the whole time. 

As I type, I imagine a dog wanting to be free from its concrete prison, longing for greener fields with other dogs and better food. I imagine a sad, discontented dog. The reality is that we have a dog that loves her people. We are her contentment because we feed her, give her water, and pet her. She does what she wants everyday, but she always comes home, because it's her home. It's her safe place.

The more I think about our dog, about being a missionary, about orienting other Americans to a foreign culture (and the internal conflict that causes), I struggle with the sub-conscious message I heard so many times growing up: there's a better way, and there's a better place -- neither of which, are here. 

"Location, location, location..." screams the mantra, and it's true if you're wanting to sell something. But the Gospel of Christ isn't a commodity to be sold. Telling a person(s) that they can have a better grasp of God if they will only change this thing or that thing isn't good news. It's heaviness--an adding of weight to a people already burdened. The Pharisees already tried that tactic.

To go into a a foreign country -- or the next state over -- to tell people I have a 'better way' of doing things is what IBM does. Or the Coca-Cola company. Or America. 

To be like Christ (or even Paul) is to go somewhere and become like the people in that place, to share ideas--to learn more about "God" from their perspective and to share Jesus from my perspective. Then to let God's presence--His Holy Spirit--change what needs changing (in them, too). Because truthfully, God is the one who has created each of us. It's His eternity that is placed in our hearts. It is He who provides everything we need (and more than most of us can use), and it is Him to whom those who know His voice run. 

I can't tell Dominicans there's a better way of living any more than those missionaries years ago could tell me that there was a better way of living. In fact, almost every person who's ever gone on a mission trip (which I've met) has been blown away by 'how present God already is' and how content (often stated, "poor, but happy") those of us with less actually are.

So, as a missionary, thinking about missionary things, I find myself rethinking what it means to 'do missions'. I still see the immense value of short-term trips (I see the evidence of world views shifting almost daily) and I see the value of long-term missionaries in other countries -- even to America (I met a Canadian missionary, once, in Arkansas--one of the great moments of my life!). But I think the vacation mentality needs to be dealt with before people leave home to go serve "those people". If there could be humility in a bottle, I would prescribe it liberally to all who want to serve, because serving ≠ condescending.

So don't go on a mission trip, or enter the mission field, because you believe you have a better way of doing things -- even if you call that way Jesus, you will simply be selling your way of living to someone else, calling it 'Good News'. Don't go somewhere for those poor people. Go because you love God so much that you want to tell everyone about Him. 

Pretend he's the new iPhone and the mission field is your Facebook account. Be that excited.

MySpace and the religious Zealot

Rosa Parks

I thought I had lost this picture. It came to me via Zach Braff's Myspace page about ten years ago. (I know, Myspace. Right?) Relatively speaking, it's not a famous picture. But it is a famous person. She caused a stir and became an icon. Some people say she was tired and simply didn't want to move to the back of the bus; others would make her the equivalent of Hercules, even Zeus. Rosa Parks recalled that her refusal wasn't because she was physically tired, but that she was tired of giving in. (multiple sources)

There are many other events associated with this culture-altering day in US history. Mrs. Parks went on to represent--and in some instances, champion--ideologies that I both support and oppose; but this is true of all people who make a difference in this world. We are passionate about the things that strike a cord within us. The things that offend us, offend us. The things we love, we LOVE.

There have been many humans throughout history who have pressed the face of their culture into the mirror of its own depravity. Some of these were broken humans, who fell further into the darkness of that very brokenness, like Adolf Hitler. Other broken humans arose from darkness into the light of Truth, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer. To be sure, both men were driven by passion and both inspired millions by their actions. Sadly, this same passion, regardless of one's (non?) religious leaning, has a simple beginning: pride. 

In Christianity, pride came before the Fall--that moment in time, when humanity "exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served something created instead of the Creator." (Genesis 1; Rom. 1) Pride entered and said, "Hey, I can be just like God." 

Pride comes with a great price when placed wrongly. At the moment when humanity chose itself over the God that created it, everything became a potential idol to worship--everything. The color of our skin, for example, became an idol in place of God and we have worshipped it throughout history--as an object of our self-love or our self-hatred. The result is the same: death.

Slavery, freedom, peace, war, universal healthcare, GMOs, UFOs, environmental justice, social justice, human rights, land rights, gay rights, religious rights – my rights. ALL of these things share one thing in common: Me, me, me.

“You can’t do that [take my guns, tell me who I can't marry] to me.” 

“You can’t do that to me”. 

Whatever word the emphasis falls on, the force behind the words are the same:

“You're not the boss of me!!”

If everyone is equal on this planet, with equal rights, then none of us actually have any rights. Another wayward expression of this idea: "Everyone is special." If that statement is true, then no one is special. If by special, however, you mean unique (ah, the English language!), then I whole-heartedly agree. We are all unique, not "special". And by no means should we grasp for equality.  

"I shouldn't have to sit in the back of the bus, I'm white."

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We're born with the ability to learn. 

I learn that if I cry, someone will pick me up, or feed me, or change my diaper. Of course, at birth, we don't have words--nor are we even able to conceptualize this process for many years to come. If this innate thinking process is permitted to take hold, I grow into a demanding, narcissistic adult with poor-to-no social skills. 

"Mommy and/or Daddy just said I couldn’t do [such and such]."

I learn that if I push that other boundary over there, they’re going to give a little bit on that boundary I really want over here. Without training and guidance (also called discipline), we might enter life with no barometer for what's right and what's not. Everything I want, I should have

Now.

... and we all do this everyday for years, even after childhood is a distant memory.  

We might become adults who decide other adults are less human than we are (or are more human than we are). We might become adults who assign seats on buses and who obediently sit in them. Innately knowing the difference between right and wrong, we consistently choose the wrong and we rationalize in order to cope with the inner conflict that occurs. 

In psychology, rationalization is a form of manipulating the truth. It has many faces:

Rationalization can be poison to our bodies: “One more donut isn’t going to affect my A1-C level that much.” 

Rationalization can be accomplice to genocide.: “If we sing the hymns louder, we won’t hear the Jews screaming when the trains rumble by [thereby avoiding guilty consciences].” 

Rationalization can lead to inaction and injustice. It says, “[That thing I should do] is going to require too much of me. Besides, someone else is probably already doing something about it.”

Rationalization hears, “Move y'all, I want those two seats,” and sits there silently, doing nothing, while thinking, Someone [else] should stand up for her; she looks tired. Hey! Don’t look at me, I’ve two kids and a wife at home.

Rationalization says, instead of getting off my phone and affecting change, I can write a blog or post a status on social media that's actually going to accomplish something. 

Rationalization’s source is pride, manifested in laziness and/or avoidance. The apostle John says pride lives in three forms:

• Lust of the flesh--I crave (comfort, for example). 
• Lust of the eyes--I want (comfort, for example).
• Pride of life--I deserve (comfort, for example). 

How can something as good and right as wanting everyone to have a place to call ‘home’ be an offense to God? How can God abhor something as responsible and affirming as bringing an end to racism? How can anti human-trafficking campaigns and gender equality organizations share the same standing in God’s eyes? How can any of this be? 

It’s really simple: we all need Jesus. If Jesus (God) isn’t the core of our motivation for something, it’s an abomination to him. (Commandment #1)

If I march on a thousand state and country capitols and I hate the people motivating my marching, I am a resounding gong. If I save a million little girls and boys from the hell of the sex-trade, but hate the men and women who put them there, I am a clanging cymbal. If in my apocalyptic shouts to awaken the Church, I hate a liberal or conservative Christian, I am a foul stench in the nostrils of God. If I mock rednecks or Muslims in my rants against Muslims or rednecks, I'm useless and laughable. If, in my zeal to do anything, I hate another human being, I set myself in place as their judge and become their murderer. (Matthew 5; Romans 13)

But wait, wasn’t Jesus zealous in the vein of King David? He fashioned cords into a whip and drove people away from the Temple as if they were wild animals going through his garbage. He then trashed the place in His zeal over His Father’s house--we tend to forget this most of this time. It’s as if cleansing the temple is one of those things that Jesus alone could do while He was here on Earth. 

Getting passionate about truth and righteousness are off limits. 

If we are truly His body–like many a famous songs state–and healing, deliverance, feeding the poor, and assisting widows and orphans are part of His continued work through us, then what of His passion for the Church? Are we really to be as bland as the ‘body’ we partake of during Communion? Are we truly to be as void-of-spirit as the grape juice we drink in remembrance of Him? We are no longer rich Christians living in an age of hunger only; we're rich Christians living with our fingers in our ears yelling, "I can't hear you!" (Psalm 69:9; Matt 21:12, 13; Mark 11: 15-17; Luke 19:45-48; John 2:13-22)

Instead of being “a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for His possession, so that [we] may proclaim the praises of the One who called [us] out of darkness into His marvelous light,” we have become nation of fearful, entitled cynics and skeptics. And that’s just the ‘churchy part’ of America. We now barter truth for peace. Truer, still, we confuse truth and peace for idolatry. Social justice is ignored over salvation. 

And vice-versa.

There seems to be a moral compass missing in the church, of which Jesus did not lack. We scoff at any semblance of religiosity out of disdain for ritual or some other weak excuse. We are quick to ‘judge’ another denomination’s gratuitous ritualism (or lack thereof) while forgetting the very God we claim to follow set in place patterns for worship – down to the color of thread to be used when sewing garments and tapestries. Why shouldn’t we care as much about Jesus’ Body as He does? If Yahweh cared enough to be explicit in the details of the worship of Him, why do we believe it acceptable to give little-to-no credence to detail at all?

Today, we worship ourselves with a good cup of joe in cozy, dimly-lit entertainment halls, or we worship ourselves with icy cold, rote services--both, dedicated to our comfort.

Jesus was Jewish. Jesus read, and followed, the Law and the Prophets; he, alone, did it perfectly. Jesus attended the ‘religious’ festivals. He honored the ‘religiosity’ set forth by His Father to the letter. To not do so would have been a violation of the Law–commandment #6, to be precise. This would have qualified as a sin, thereby nullifying His entire existence on this planet. His famous speech about binding the broken and setting the prisoner free came while He was in the Temple following religious protocol. His own mouth stated that He did not come to abolish the Law, but to fulfill it. 

How can this Jesus be some surfer-dude vagabond with no regard for ignorant conformists? He was born as one of them. He read what we now call the Old Testament. He, Himself, was the very Word made flesh! Jesus was, in fact, so legalistic that He–the perfect Lamb who was slain before the foundations of the Earth–came into Jerusalem during the very week prescribed by Yahweh, His Father. It was during this religious, ceremonial holy week commemorating a famous event in Jewish history–the Passover–that Jesus entered God’s holy (set apart, religiously, if you will) city to provide His sacrifice along with the thousands upon thousands of other ‘ignorant, religious’ people. 

But we somehow still think of Jesus as the CEO of Hallmark Greeting Cards, or something similarly ridiculous, like the Great Lebowski. Jesus was not just some mystical hippie, or a greeting card author. He was, is, God incarnate. 

Jesus said things that are hard to hear: 

“If you don’t forgive others, the Father in Heaven will not forgive you.” 

“If you look at a woman lustfully, you have already committed adultery with her in your heart.” 

“Take up your cross daily and follow me.” 


These words are no more idle than are the following: 

“Love your neighbor...” 

“Love one another...” 

“I have come to give abundant life...” 

“Peter, put down your sword...”  – all of which we are quick to embrace in our attempts to emasculate the Living God to soothe our own fears and pride (a closer study of that last reference, in particular, would do many Christians some good).

I have been taught that Jesus was a pacifist. Clearly, scripture shows us otherwise (white horse, army, one final battle). Neither was Jesus being a pacifist at that moment in time when Peter cuts off a guy’s ear with his sword. Jesus was not telling Peter to lay down his arms because He was against gun violence. He was commanding Peter to cease interfering in His marriage ceremony.

Today, we seem to want Jesus, the Stoic, to be saying something like, “Aw, Pete. That’s so cute. Thanks for standing up for me, but I got this.” When in reality, he is screaming, “Peter! I am about to enter into the greatest wedding ceremony this world will ever know and you WILL NOT take it from me. The Bride I have come for is too valuable to be lost over your misplaced attempt at valor!” 

Jesus is a passionately focused man bent on one end and one end alone: marrying the Bride his Father chose for Him. And nothing, not Peter’s sword or the very Gates of Hell are going to stand in His way. There is no turning to the left or to the right. His gaze is fixed on the prize.

But hear this: Jesus does not wield lightning bolts, eagerly seeking to annihilate any who get in His way. We suffer from selective ignorance in today’s American church. One half of us worship Jesus, the man who makes King Leonidas look like a toothless toddler, while the other half fauns after Jesus, the stoned camp counselor. Both sides lose.

Jesus is the Lion and the Lamb. You don’t get one without the other. If you think you have a relationship with one and not the other, you have a relationship with neither. Another of the hard things Jesus said, was this: “unless you eat my flesh and drink my blood, you have no part with me.” In other words, if you do not take Jesus completely--as the Israelites did the lambs at the original Passover--He does not consider you part of His body.

The final Revelation to John proves this. In the Gospels, Jesus came into the world to seek and save that which was lost – the Sacrificial Lamb. While on the cross, He said, “It is finished.” I believe Him. When He comes back to Earth, it will not be in humility. He is coming as the conquering King, the Lord of Lords… the Lion of the tribe of Judah. And this time, He will have a sword protruding from His mouth – not a bubble wand… The Lamb accomplished Its goal. The Lion is coming to do the same.

And then there will be peace.


Rosa Parks was tired of not having justice in her life. So are you. So am I. But none of us are a righteous, holy God. Our justice is not God's justice. I don't get to judge your lack. I am to encourage you, build you up with words, songs, and action. We can try to assume the roles of determining who the wheat and tares are. But that's not our job. When we focus on rooting out the heretics in our midst, we take our focus off the Truth; and the path is narrow. There's little room for error and if we look away from the Way for an instant, we go off course--and are in danger of becoming the very thing we're striving to expose.

Don't make demons out of broken people. Follow Jesus and help others do the same thing. Racists need salvation as much as anti-racists do. Don't fall into the trap of thinking your justice is true justice. Fall into the hands of God, the true and just judge.

Hearts Set on Pilgrimage: We Need Hugs

Here's a post from last year. A recent article inspired by a Ted talk led me to repost it. 



Hearts Set on Pilgrimage: We Need Hugs

I Don't Like Questions

I am having to ask questions again.

Honestly, this season of returning to the mission field after an almost-five-year hiatus was not one I heavily reflected on. My focus was mostly on how my husband, a man embarking on his first missionary journey, was handling the process. Or how he was going to handle the process; or, how I was going to handle him going through the process…how was I going to handle myself with him going through the process? And, up until now, that has predominantly been where my focus and energies have gone. In some ways, it’s almost as though I myself have not been here this last year. I’ve been watching, waiting, listening, praying, crying, yelling…for him, at him, to him…to see if he’s going to fall in love with missions as I have. I have wanted him to look like me. But I didn’t know it. At least, not in a conscious sense. I didn’t know that I was waiting for him to fall in love so that we could be in love together and finally live in dreamy harmony for the rest of our adult lives.

A few times last summer I believed this was starting to happen. Instead of being able to start up the ministry site we came down here to start, he was told by our missions leadership that they wanted him to experience being in another site first…to see how it functions when we have short-term teams with us. It seemed wise, though hard to deal with at the time, as he was very excited to begin the work we came to do. Within a week, though, change was happening. After several frustrating months of transition and haphazard language learning, my husband began coming home rejoicing. He was spending the days on a patch of dirt playing soccer with a group of neighborhood boys. He went from being ‘Americano’ to ‘Meester Cleenton’. Even though they daily accused him of being the World’s Worst Goalie, they also showered him with hugs, high fives and respect. In their eyes, in their attitudes, on their streets, Clint saw himself as a young boy growing up in a poor socio-economic area. As the saying goes, he, like they, grew up poor, but happy.

But then Clint started coming home asking questions.
Questions about the way we do missions, about the need for missions, frustrated with missions, confused about missions. Questions I didn’t want to hear, ponder or even try to answer. I’d already asked these questions myself when I was a single missionary walking these same streets eight years ago. After living here for two years and after wrestling through many questions, I finally concluded that none of it mattered. God had called me here. God had directed me to work with this specific organization. It was up to Him whether or not we were doing missions ‘correctly’—whether what I did or didn’t do made any kind of difference.

Since the moment God spoke to me about returning here, with my husband, to work for the same organization in the same place, I have not questioned that there was purpose in it. I have not questioned that there is a divine reason why God wanted us here.  And I have wanted my husband, who did not hear God’s voice telling him to come here, who has never wanted to be a missionary, who has really struggled to grasp why we’re even here, to not have questions either. I was not prepared to have to walk with him through the same process I myself walked through eight years ago. I was not prepared to have to answer questions I had long since buried. Questions like: If there are churches here full of Dominicans, why do so many Americans still come here? How integrated do we need to become? Should we live in a poor area or in a "safer" area? Do we give to everyone who begs or just to those who can’t work? We run a media site…is it intrusive to be filming these poor people or is it the best means to communicate their need to the world? Are we here helping or exploiting? Are the Dominicans tired of the constant coming and going of Americans? Will we ever be able to overcome the ‘rich American’ status we automatically have in coming here by being so shiny for Christ that Christ is all they see? (So far, the answer to that question is NO).

And then come the bigger questions: Why did God direct us to come here? What is it that He truly wants from us?  Are we supposed to be voices that cry out in the wilderness or are we supposed to be world changers? Does it matter that we feel too broken to make a difference? Too selfish? Will we become one of the statistics-- one of the casualties-- due to lack of soul care on the field? Is the gospel really what we are living for? Are we truly willing to die?

These questions get very overwhelming. 

Which is why I had stopped asking the questions.
It was easier for me to just keep my head down, do my job and leave the details to God. God said come, so I came. That’s all I needed to know. A+B=C.  I am an algebra girl. Clint is a calculus guy.  I don’t want to peer into all that ‘stuff’ that hurts my brain.

But I have to. I have to because he has to. I have to because it’s part of growing, part of working with God instead of just for God. God says, ‘Seek Me’. God says, ‘Knock’. God says, ‘Ask’. He promises to answer us when we do these things. He promises to be found by us when we do these things with all of our hearts. We are often taught that obedience is all God wants. We are also often taught that he wants relationship more than anything. Can a relationship truly exist without dialogue? Aside from your kids automatically doing what you’ve asked them to do, do you want to know them? Do you want them to know you? What about your spouse? Sure, it’s wonderful to have your spouse automatically respond to a request with a joyful, ‘Yes, honey!’ but if they never ask you questions, will you ever have a true relationship? You can pay people to do exactly what you want them to do for you. That is not relationship. That is not love.

But the questions bring up conflict.
They bring up dark, murky areas that reveal our imperfections and vulnerabilities. They force us to look at our limitations and absolutely feel our inadequacies. They throw our little controlled worlds into orbit and cause rifts in our atmospheres. Rifts that are so uncomfortable for us that we just fall back to our favorite answer: God is in control. And yes, yes He is. But does that mean He doesn’t want change? Does that mean He really does want automatons to do His bidding and it doesn’t really matter one bit what we say, think or do?

I don’t believe so. And, so here I am, being provoked through my husband, to ask questions that are uncomfortable. To listen to him ask questions I don’t have answers for. To know that the choices we make have impact, whether great or small, and that we need to be evaluating what kind of impact we’re making, what kind of life we are living. “for in Him we live and move and have our being,”

And, in all of this, we still aren’t going to get it right. But in all of it, in all of the seeking, asking, knocking, we just might get a greater revelation of who God is, of who we are, of how He sees the people we live among; of what love truly looks like. I encourage you to ask some questions today and be willing to let God take you to new places.

“I will give you the treasures of darkness

And hidden riches of secret places,

That you may know that I, the Lord,

Who call you by your name,

Am the God of Israel.”

Isaiah 45:3

Traditional coffee etiquette in the DR

Coming to the DR? 

Thirsty?

Boy, are you in luck!!